Smiling
by silvermisery
Summary: She had melted the ice...so he was forced to cover up his pain with sunshine. After Hermione dies, Draco is devastated, but his way of dealing with it worries Harry. OneShot. Rated T for adult issues and mild language.


Disclaimer: Yes, I own Harry Potter! Yippee yippee!...not. The day I own Harry Potter is the day you see Lord Voldemort dressing up like a pink bunny rabbit and all the titles are suddenly changed to Draco Malfoy and…

Smiling

By Narcissa37226Malfoy

"Potter." It was strangled, almost, choked, as if the speaker was fighting with herself to be civil. Harry whipped around from the broom he was inspecting with his wand half out of his robes; old habits died hard. His wand clattered to the ground, along with his jaw, when he saw Narcissa Malfoy standing there before him with an almost human look on her face. The ice queen demeanor was gone, vanished as though fire had come and burned it away, only patches melting in the heat to remind anyone that there had once been a proud and beautiful being here. This woman was ragged, desperate, circles under her eyes and only her Malfoy pride keeping her together and on her feet, it seemed.

"Excuse me?" he asked uncertainly. He and a Malfoy just didn't click, but ever since Draco Malfoy had turned to the Light side in their 7th year, he and Narcissa had refrained from outright insulting each other, though the unspoken truce did not protect him from snide comments.

"Potter, you need to help me." Now he blinked; he was the last person he could think of from whom Narcissa Malfoy would beg help.

"What?" he said bemusedly, sounding as though he had just been Confunded.

"I know we don't like each other, but, please, for my son's sake. You need to help me. Please. For—for Gr—her sake. Please, you have to come. Weasley wouldn't. You and your wife—please."

Harry stared at her. That Ron had said no was not surprising; his hatred of Draco Malfoy—any Malfoy— ran far deeper in his veins than in Harry's. But what could be wrong with Draco? He had seemed to recover from the War and its aftermath quite well, better than himself, even, as he had locked himself up in a room for a year. Ginny had been worried out of her mind. Vaguely he remembered that Draco, too, had locked himself up in a room for a few weeks as well, but had come out long before Harry.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"He's always—always smiling," said Narcissa.

Now Harry gaped. "Uh—isn't that supposed to be a good thing?" he asked, trying to be polite.

"No, you don't know my son. He doesn't smile—he _never _smiles! Never laughs, never overly polite—oh, of course he doesn't throw things, but he says please and thank you and goes out of his way to be pleasant and accommodating, he _apologized _for bumping into someone the other day, and always—always, he smiles, that horrid jokey smile plastered on his face, over the hurt I know is there. He never cried, you know. Never. He never cries now, never breaks down, never gets upset, always smiles. This is not my son! You need to help him. Please. He's never gotten over _her _death."

"Let me get Ginny." Harry turned and Disapparated to the Burrow immediately. He was not particularly fond of Draco—they were not and never would be best buddies. But they had worked together and fought together and lived together, and they had a certain bond that only men who have been in fear of death together can have. They were on first name basis now, though just barely, but he had not seen Draco since he had come out of seclusion. And now he was worried. Because much as he hated to admit it, Narcissa Malfoy was right. Draco was just not that kind of person. He was sarcastic, and witty, and sometimes went too far because there was the perfect comeback that he had just _had _to say, and his stupid Malfoy pride kept him from apologizing. He had exquisite manners when he cared to use them, and rarely let down his guard so far as to relax his face, and never—_never!_—smiled.

Something was wrong.

"Harry! Wha—"

"Ginny, wait. I need to talk to you." Rapidly he filled her in on what Narcissa's diatribe on Draco.

"But that's awful!" she said, then made a face. "That sounds so cliché, doesn't it. The pretty compassionate little girl, whose heart breaks for every bugger on the streets, and clutches her heart and says, '_Oh, that's awful!_'" the last words she said a high-pitched, annoyingly sappy voice.

Harry grinned—even when he was worried sick, Ginny could always make him feel better. "Just like you, huh? Come on, we'll be Flooing direct to Malfoy Manor." Working as an Auror made your reflexes quick in daily aspects of life, not just fighting, and it was a surprisingly short time later when Harry and Ginny popped out of the fireplace in Malfoy Manor, slightly ashy but none the worse for the wear.

"Potter, Wea—Potter," said Narcissa, sounding slightly awkward as she realized her slip-up but refusing to let it fluster her. Already her cold demeanor was returning, her grief and fear allayed by their arrival. "He'll be just down. Draco!" she called. "You have visitors!" The last words were spoken in a falsely cheerful tone.

"Coming, Mother," he called, making his way down the stairs. Harry looked up to see his old—what was it exactly? Friend? Maybe not quite friend. What was the word you used for someone who you didn't joke around with, hang out with, go to the movies with, but who you trusted with your life?—something. There he was—the same trademark platinum Malfoy hair, the milky skin, classically handsome features, but something about him had changed—something so drastic, so intense that even mere acquaintances could have seen that he had changed.

"Harry. Ginny." The words were flat, forced, distorted, as though they had started almost distastefully then been pushed through a screen of cheerfulness. He quickly recovered, though, and a huge smile lit up his face. "How nice to see you again!" the tone, the expression, none of it was like his old friend—yes, Harry realized, friend, or it couldn't hurt so much to see him like this—and he almost winced before he caught himself.

"You too, Draco." The two men shook hands, and Ginny and Draco, to Harry's complete surprise, exchanged a platonic hug. Not that he was jealous—he trusted Ginny—but Draco had never been a hugging sort of person. Neither had he, until Ginny. Was it possible that Draco's wife had changed him too? But he didn't think it was something that could be wiped away with a wave of the hand. Draco was not outwardly affectionate.

"How about you three go out to the veranda? I'll be just out," said Narcissa, breaking the silence with the same cheerful voice she used around Draco. Harry realized that he had been staring off into space and blushed, hastily agreeing.

A house-elf brought pumpkin juice and refreshments, and the three friends chatted amiably for a while. Too amiably. Once when Draco laughed out loud at Harry's joke about the Healer and Mimbletonia, Harry winced. He tried to cover it up almost immediately, but he knew that both people sitting at the table saw. And he knew that Draco acted as though he had not seen it and that Ginny agreed with him. He stood up, claiming a headache, and strolled inside the house. This was not Draco. This was so not Draco. Where was the old acerbic man he knew? The one who smirked at the drop of a hat, the one who insulted him at every possible moment and then laughed (slightly, not jovially as this Draco was doing) so he knew it was all okay? He missed that Draco. He missed those insults. He would rather have been called "Boy-Wonder," "Scarhead," or "Boy-Who-Should-Have-Died-But-Managed-To-Flub-That-Up-Like-Everything-Else-So-That-I'm-Now-Stuck-With-Him," than have this unfailingly polite zombie.

His feet had taken him to an unfamiliar part of the Manor. He looked up, intending to turn back, but then caught his breath sharply and stared. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned, it was _her. _Pictures of her papered the wall, portraits of her were framed and hanging. _Her _smiling, her laughing, her talking to her friends, her kissing Draco, her—here his heart gave a painful squeeze—laughing, her cheeks rosy, her ever-untamable hair messy, having a snowball fight with him and Ron and Draco. He didn't know how long he stood there, staring. Muggle photographs and wizard photographs, Muggle portraits and wizard portraits, though he noticed that those were empty, so many of them, all coming at them, an avalanche, pouring toward him, overwhelming him—he broke away sharply and struggled to breathe.

"Harry?" _shit. Not now. Go away. You do not need to find me like this. Shit __shit__shit__. Go away. _

"Harry? Why didn't you—" she made a strangled sort of sob at the sight of the room. He chanced a peek at her; her skin was so ashen-white, her freckles were standing out starkly, like trees on a snow-covered field.

Behind her he heard footsteps and closed his eyes, mentally bracing himself for the explosion he was sure would come. But there was nothing. He opened his eyes and saw Draco smiling sadly at him. And now he knew the million things that had changed, all of them intensifying in this room. The imperceptible slump in his backbone where before that been erect pride. The slight bags under his eyes, almost unnoticeable. The absence of the swagger and trademark Malfoy smirk. The dullness of his eyes, no longer intense silver, or determined steel-grey, or angry iron-grey, but a dull black-grey, the kind of opaque color that is flat and sucks in all of the light and never gives any back.

"Draco, why—what, I mean, the point of all this—she wouldn't want you to dwell on it like this, she—" his voice trailed off, unable to look the other man in the eye and continue to deliver all the meaningless platitudes that had been just as empty to him as well.

And now he knew. Draco hadn't abandoned his mask which had served him so well for so many years. He had just replaced it. Ice had no longer worked—she'd melted it all away, so he'd replaced with a cover of sunbeams, a sheet of light so intensely _happy, _so _cheerful, _so _normal, _that it hurt to look through it.

"Draco…" his voice cracked like a girl's, but he didn't care anymore. How could he have been suffering so long, so much, and nobody have noticed until now except his mother? She would have been so disappointed…

"It's all right," he said brusquely, sounding for a moment almost like the old Draco, the one who couldn't stand being comforted. "It's just—I need to look at her face every once in a while, you know? To remember the color of her eyes. Do you know, they're exactly the shade of Honeydukes chocolate? And they used to have golden sparkles in them." His voice was dull, and Harry felt a wrenching pain in his gut, like she was dying all over again.

"Come on, Harry. It's time to go. Remus will be expecting us," Ginny said in an oddly gentle voice, the fire in her voice oddly tame.

Harry looked back one last time to watch Draco sitting down, his head in his hands, a picture of her in his lap. And then Harry knew. Knew that Draco never had gotten over her, that he couldn't survive without her, that he was barely clinging to her memory by the tips of his fingers just to keep on living. She had been an angel in his life, bringing forgiveness and redemption for what he had done, and now she was gone, leaving only a memory behind. It had hit Harry hard, but it had hit Draco far harder. Harry had Ron, Ginny, the rest of the Order—Draco had nothing. Nothing except a mother who turned to Firewhiskey to drown her troubles. He was just trying to survive…

As Harry Disapparated with Ginny, he could have sworn he heard a hoarse voice whisper, "Goddamnit, I loved you Hermione…" He looked back just in time to catch it, the crowning irony of it all…he was smiling.

_"They tore out your heart,_

_I miss you…you were smiling…"_

_"_ _Imagine__ me without you_

_I'd be lost and so confused_

_I wouldn't la__st a day, I'd be afraid_

_Without you there to see me through_

_W__hen you caught me I was falling_

_Your__ love lifted me back on my feet_

_I__t was like you heard me calling_

_And you rushed to set me free…"_

Author's Note: Thanks for reading. Just popped in my head after reading two fanfics, and wouldn't let me rest until I typed it out. First lyrics from "Haunted" by Kelly Clarkson and the second from "Imagine Me Without You" by Jaci Velasquez. Now then, there's that little purple button down there, it's calling you…it's haunting you...doesn't it look appealing?


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